Countdown: The Liberators-ARC

by Tom Kratman

  The twice-weekly marches had gradually been worked up from six miles at a fairly slow place and minimal equipment (barring the heavy mortars, which were always brought along for pain's sake) to twelve at a near killing pace. It was hard on the old men's knees, in itself, but their weight was dropping and that helped a bit. Maybe more importantly, they'd gotten used to regular pain again, pain in the back, pain in the knees, pain in the feet, and pain in all the muscles in between.

  From the "street" outside of his darkened tent, Reilly heard the first sergeant giving the orders, "Foot inspection in thirty minutes. Platoon sergeants take charge of your platoons." This was followed by Platoon Sergeant, ex-Sergeant Major, Schetrompf shouting, "You pussies don't need thirty minutes. Besides, the sun-such as it is-will be down by then. Squad leaders, you have ten to get 'em ready. Snap and pop, assholes, snap and pop." Epolito added, "The same goes for you, Third Herd."

  Reilly made his way to his cot and sat down at the foot of it, wearily and heavily. "Oh, God," he moaned, softly, "my feet hurt."

  Lana came in, dropped her rucksack down, plopped her shapely posterior on the ground, and leaned her back against the tent's center pole. She was wearing a green T-shirt that stuck to her body in all the best places. "You know," she said, "there's a lot to be said for just being a girl . . . pampered . . . soft . . . protected . . . spoiled. Maybe this whole feminist thing is a bad mistake."

  Reilly knew she wasn't serious, or not entirely serious. "You heard Top. Get your boots off."

  "I can't," she replied. "It hurts too much even to think about."

  That much he did believe. He flipped the shoulder straps off of his rucksack and lay back, then rolled off the cot to the tent's dirt floor. On all fours he crawled toward her until he'd reached her feet.

  "You don't have . . . "

  "Shut up," Reilly said, as he began unlacing her boots. He undid the laces on both before pulling off first the left one, then the right. Thickly cushioned but now wet boot socks followed. These, smelly things that they were, he stuffed into the boots. There was just barely enough light to see by, filtering through the tent's roof, walls, and door. At least there was now that his eyes were accustomed to it.

  He examined her feet with a critical eye. "Tsk," he said, on seeing the prominent blisters. "You don't march much in Tzahal"-the Israeli Army-"do you?"

  "Not so much," she admitted. "Not since the fifties when we went almost completely mechanized. Oh, sure, there's some in initial training and then rarely after that." She thought about that last statement and amended it, "Really rarely."

  "It shows. How long have they been like this?"

  "Couple of weeks."

  "And you didn't see the medics?" His voice was full of reproach, even as his mind thought, Good girl. Tough girl. You make me proud of you.

  "I'm not a whiner." And besides, I didn't want to disappoint you.

  "I guess not," he agreed. "Wait here while I go get Sergeant Coffee."

  He started to rise but her hand shot up and pulled him back to the ground, considerably nearer to her than he'd been. "Wait," she said. "It can wait."

  "For what?"

  "For this." She used both hands to grab him on either side of his head and pulled his lips to hers. He resisted, at first, but she had powers-God-given ones-far beyond his merely mortal ability to resist. One hand, his left, intertwined itself in the great auburn waterfall of her hair while the right, operating entirely on genetic autopilot, sought its way under her T-shirt, behind to her back, and then to the clasp that held her bra. A pinch of the clasp, a twitch of the finger and thumb, and it was loose, her breasts free. That hand then moved to cup the left breast softly but firmly.

  She broke the kiss and moved her mouth to his ear. "Would you prefer to fuck me or to make love to me?" she sighed, breathless. "You can have it any way you want, any place you want it."

  The spell she had him in wasn't broken, but it had been weakened by the breaking of the kiss. He backed off slightly and answered. "I'd prefer it when this is over."

  She stiffened. "Damn! It's your wife, isn't it? I don't care if you're married. I want you now!"

  He smiled, more than a trifle sadly. Untangling his hand from her hair and holding it up, he wagged his fingers and asked, "You mean this? I'm not married; I'm a widower. I wear it in memory." And because it made me feel a little less alone. I think it did, anyway. Though maybe sometimes it reminded me of how alone I was.

  "But the men . . . ?"

  He shrugged. "They don't know, except for a couple of them. No reason to tell them."

  "Bu' . . . oh, never mind. You don't want to make love until the mission is over?"

  "Bad policy, I think."

  Her hand went to his trousers, grasping him through the fabric. She looked around. Yes, it was fully dark by now. "We'll compromise," she said.

  "Huh?"

  "Just relax," she answered, pushing him back. She twisted her body and began to bend her head, even while her fingers worked at the belt and buttons of his trousers. She was perhaps less expert in this than he had been with her bra clasp. Still, enthusiasm counts for much. Her hand felt around softly. "Ah, good," she said, in a husky voice. "I'm not orthodox but for some things I prefer kosher." As she bent her head over him, she added, "This isn't sex; that's what everyone says. But at least it's intimate, and emotionally satisfying, if not physically. And don't worry; I'll be the best little trooper you ever saw after this; no favoritism for me. But you will fuck me immediately after the mission is complete. Immediately!"

  After that he wasn't in any mental position to argue the point, his brain being much deprived of blood and oxygen.

  Oxygen deprived or not, Reilly wasn't nearly finished before he pulled Lana off and said, "Ah, screw it. Let's fuck."

  "What the fuck do you want, George?" Joshua asked irritably.

  Framed in the door of the sergeant major's, the light illuminating his features beatifically, George smiled, stuck out one hand, palm up, and answered, just softly enough not to be heard outside the tent, "I want my pound of flesh. He did her. Hah!"

  "He fucked her?"

  George hesitated. His hand dropped slightly. "Well . . . not exactly. She blew him though. I heard it. Most of it. I came back to collect before he actually finished."

  "Thought so. You're an eavesdropping piece of shit, George. Besides, it doesn't count; ask the former President of the United States. For that matter, ask any fifteen year old; not that there's much difference between the two. He's got to fuck her-and before the mission-if you want your money back, First Sergeant; that was the deal."

  George turned on his heel and stormed off without another voiced word, thinking, Bastard.

  D-38, Assembly Area Alpha-Base Camp, Amazonia, Brazil

  The Eland moved cautiously up the trail, its turret moving left-right, left-right, under Dani Viljoen's deft spinning of the wheel. Beside him sat Lana, her eyes scanning for threats-targets, in other words-and one hand resting on the ready rack of training rounds. Up front, Dumisani drove. He'd come to driving late in life, a byproduct of South Africa's former policy of oppression and suppression of its black population. He'd never quite gotten the hang of civilized driving. For a combat vehicle, this was no detriment but quite the opposite; Dumi could and would do things with a vehicle that had no place in civilized driving but were entirely appropriate in combat.

  All three wore helmets on their heads, with boom microphones and cushioned speakers surrounding their ears. With these they communicated through the intercom system when the roar of the engine didn't permit normal conversation.

  "Our girl here seems pretty happy, wouldn't you say, Dumi?" Viljoen asked. His manipulation of the traversing crank was automatic, leaving his brain and mouth free to tease the woman.

  "Leave her alone, Dani," the driver said, with just a trace of menace.

  "Not a chance," Viljoen responded. "How many times has it been now, Lana? Seems like every day since the last foot march you've disa
ppeared for an hour or two."

  "Fuck off, Boer," the Israeli woman replied. Then, "Gunner, HEAT, Tank!"

  "Identified," Viljoen said. "Target."

  "Fire."

  The muzzle flashed. The .50 caliber subcal wasn't nearly enough to rock the armored car. They still felt the blast on their skin. Downrange, a plywood target shuddered. Lana was already slinging another round into the breech as Viljoen announced hit.

  "Repeat. Fire."

  "On the way . . . hit."

  "Driver, move out."

  "So how many times has it been, Lana?" Viljoen asked again.

  "Has what been?" she asked.

  He pulled his face away from his gunner's sight and said, "Don't be silly."

  She shrugged. "Do multiples count? If so . . . ummm . . . eight . . . .no, nine. But you can't tell anybody."

  "Wouldn't dream of it. I would, however, suggest that you make sure to wipe your chin before you leave his tent. And take off your shirt beforehand, too, because semen on mostly green camouflage cloth is pretty noticeable."

  "I didn't!" she exclaimed.

  "Actually, Lana," Dumi said from down at the driver's station, "you did. At least twice."

  "Oh, God, did anybody else notice?"

  Dumi answered, "Just Schiebel and Sergeant James, I think. Don't worry; they won't mention it. But eventually . . . "

  "It would be simpler if he'd just screw me all the time," she said. "No muss, no fuss. But he's so worried about being caught . . . " Then, "Driver halt. Back up. Back up!"

  "Gunner, HEAT, tank!"

  A very confused and conflicted Reilly watched the half of the armored car platoon for which he had vehicles maneuver through the bare floored jungle. He realized he had eyes only for Lana's Eland and so forced those eyes away. When, after a moment, they went back of their own accord he physically turned away and began the walk back to camp, head toward the ground.

  Not far from the armored vehicle training area began the ranges. At the first of these, the Marine company worked their PUS-7 simulators for the their Victor-supplied RPG-7s. Cazz, standing behind the firing line, waved. Reilly returned the wave, politely, then looked down again, continuing on.

  Past the antitank range, he came to a square, marked-off open area where one of Sergeant Peters' mortarmen ran from spot to spot, a radio on his back, dropping simulators to mark rounds called in by forward observers.

  Nothing I can do there that Peters can't do as well or better, he thought, then continued his trek.

  He stopped to let a Ferret pass him by, the scout car dragging behind it an empty container on log rollers. Some of Nagy's engineers took turns moving the rollers to the front of the container as they were rolled forward. The engineers dripped sweat in the equatorial heat.

  And that's where we're going to hide the vehicles, the military ones, anyway, when we leave. Who knows; maybe we can recover them some day. And, if not, they'll make some interesting matters of conjecture for some future archeologists.

  On the other side of the container Reilly saw Stauer, deep in conversation with Chaplain Wilson.

  Guilt, Reilly thought. What I've got is a bad case of conscience. I mean, when you fail to meet even the very low standards you set for yourself . . .

  On the other hand, between having a company again and having a worthwhile woman again my life is pretty much complete again. And so, of course, I feel guilty over that, too.

  He walked over and said, first to Wilson, "I wish you were a Catholic. Since you're not," he turned to face Stauer, "Boss, can I have a private word with you?"

  From off in the distance came an irregular pop . . . pop . . . pop from the Dragunov range. From a droning plane above the airfield small dots could be seen falling. Parachutes opened up over the dots, slowing their descent. From last night's command and staff meeting, Reilly knew that a couple of the translators were being trained to jump.

  "No," Stauer said, shaking his head firmly. "No, you can't be relieved and turn command over to your exec. He's a good guy but he's not you and I need you. And, no, especially are you not relieved after you lobbied so hard for the position. No, I can't get another crewman to replace Mendes since a) I don't have one and b) it's unlikely anyone else will be willing to serve with the two gays. We're just not that enlightened a group; sad but true. And I can't begin to tell you how disappointed I am in you. You, of all people, should have known better than to get romantically involved with a subordinate."

  And am I the world's greatest hypocrite or what?

  Head hanging, Reilly admitted, "I know. It . . . she was on my not-to-do list until much later but . . . well, things sort of got out of control. And now . . . now I don't know what to do. I can't stand the thought of putting her at risk."

  Stauer scowled and growled, "Then I strongly suggest you do everything in your power to minimize that risk, company commander. Because we're still going in. She's still going to be commanding an Eland. And you still have a mission.

  "On which subject, are you ready to start burying equipment, striking tents, and moving your people to the Merciful?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Stauer nodded, then asked, "You want a suggestion?"

  Reilly just nodded, guiltily.

  "When we pack out of here, move her in with you, all open and above board. There'll be less damage that way than if you keep sneaking it."

  "I'll think about it, sir."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  If the highest aim of a captain were to preserve

  his ship, he would keep it in port forever.

  -St. Thomas Aquinas

  D-32, MV Merciful, Manaus, Brazil

  The ship was anchored at the stern, with the bow, guided by the current, pointing downstream, toward the Atlantic. Behind it, the lights of the city shone, their rays bouncing off of the thick clouds overhead and illuminating river and ship, and the jungle framing both. Coming, as it did, from everywhere, the ambient light fairly obliterated any chance at deep shadows.

  Not so much fortunately, as by plan, the Merciful was anchored toward the north bank of the river with no ships or boats between it and the bank. Still, when the landing craft put-putted in, passed the ship, then turned to face upstream, perhaps someone on that bank might have seen it maneuver to a position alongside the merchant vessel. Perhaps that person might have seen the lowered boarding ramp or the long line of men, lugging rucksacks and other impedimenta, depart the craft up the ramp before disappearing through an open hatch in the ship's side.

  "But," as Kosciusko observed, "anyone looking at this boat at three-thirty in the fucking morning needs to get a life. Besides, the authorities are a lot more interested in people who come in illegally than in people departing for just about any reason."

  "This is so, Captain," Chin agreed.

  "By the way, we have a new assignment for you and your men," Kosciusko said.

  "The Bastard?" Chin asked, his face carefully blank. Be still, O my heart.

  "The Bastard."

  D-30, MV Merciful, five miles past Santarem, Brazil

  The ship didn't rock much, here in the waters of the Amazon, except on a turn, sometimes, or when another ship passed it going in the other direction. Down low in the hold, in Stauer's quarters, a twenty-foot container, lit by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, with a narrow folding cot, a small field desk and a pair of folding metal chairs, even the wake of passing ships was barely to be noticed.

  He lay on his cot, staring upward, seething inside.

  God, we've gotten away with so much, so far. I can hardly believe our luck will hold. But it has to.

  Tomorrow, once we're past Brazil's territorial waters, I have to brief the men . . . oh, and the women, too . . . on the mission. They might balk. Be a laugh, which is to say a crying shame, if after all this they decide they don't want any part of it. Will they? I don't know. I'd have told them more from the beginning, if I could have been sure none of them would go running to the authorities. What if they want to run
to the authorities now?

  Simple, we lock anyone who balks in the containers they don't know about, the ones Chin set up . . . the ones with the bars. We can hold as many as fifty that way.

  And no hard feelings. Anybody who doesn't want to stay in needs the excuse of being held against their will. What's the most they could be charged with then? Illegal possession of personal firearms in Brazil? No one's going to extradite for that. Well, I don't think anyone will.

  Least of my problems, anyway. What if the planes break down? What if the helicopters do? We've run the landing craft kind of hard these last couple of months. What if they break down? What if they break down when we've got half the force ashore?

  Fuck, fuck, FUCK.

  Konstantin and the Russians? How do I know I can trust them? Boxer thinks they're solid, that the old man in the Lubyanka wants that Yemeni punished and no more. Oh . . . I suppose I can trust Boxer's judgment on such things. And we will have Victor Inning, the old man's son in law, as a hostage. That counts for something.

  Once ashore? Fuck. There are so many things that can go wrong ashore I don't even want to think about it. Reilly fails? . . . Well . . . no. Reilly won't fail. Neither will Cazz. Unless, of course, the armored force near Rako doesn't fall for the bait. What then? Shit.

  Then I tell Reilly "Move to contact and destroy them." He'll get butchered, of course. But I wouldn't bet on his not winning anyway. Though he won't be going after the town with what he'll have left.

  Stauer had a sudden image of a headline in the New York Times. "Mercenaries Massacred." And wouldn't the bastards be popping champagne corks over it, too.

  And what am I going to say to the men? What if . . .

  D-29, MV Merciful, 107 miles northeast of Forteleza, Brazil